In The Drift
by Zaedah
Summary: Consequences are as autumn leaves; she can never rake fast enough to clear the yard.
1. Chapter 1

_Since my faithful readers endured the world's longest metaphor on the last piece, I felt I owed you something straightforward. And no... Zaedah hasn't given Peter back yet and no... she's not sharing!_

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**In The Drift**

It is the cackling giggle of an elderly man that has Olivia and her wounded ears taking the narrow steps two at a time, leaving the pre-coffee noises behind. 'Mother Nature's shaking out her dandruff for all she's worth,' Walter is expounding to Astrid with the volume of stampeding elephants. Though winters have rarely been kind, Olivia stalks out to gladly face the distant sun harshly glaring off a blanket of reflective white. The porch of a cafeteria takes the role of hideout and she leans against the iron railing to commune with winter's prize. The misted curl of each breath is escorted behind her shoulder by a light breeze and she wishes her irritation would float away just as easily.

Surrounded by as yet untouched beauty, she considers the two modes of snow: the pure initial falling and the later inevitable tainting. Rarely can one see the in-between, as man so quickly ruins the perfection of nature. So much like Walter's experiments. Perhaps that is why she couldn't remain in that room today; his joy in overpowering Mother Nature is likely the reason the non-existent being had dandruff to begin with. The image of the sky trying to shake out his meddling amuses her. But only briefly.

She knows he's behind her. The development of her Bishop radar had taken little effort, truth be told. But Peter says nothing, in that way of his that's supposed to make her speak first, giving him something he can then pick apart. It is a greatly disliked tactic. Because it works.

"It's snowing." She tells him.

"Yes, it is." The man could sink ships with the dull edge of his dead-pan voice. Her continued staring contest with the white precipitation prompts him to inspect her, which invariably shaves the jaggedness from his tone. "What is it?"

She hates when he does that. Turns off the sarcastic monotone and lets the concern taint a perfectly welcome detachment. And there is loathing for the knowledge that no answer will satisfy this Bishop.

"Nothing."

"Nothing's ever nothing with you." He puts forth the observation carefully, as one scolded all too recently for lethal bluntness.

Her chastisement is born of the shifty man's ability to zero in on truth and quip the death out of it. But he's watching her and a conclusion of this non-conversation is unlikely. And knowing she'll have to scrape off the roof of the snow-laden SUV makes her long for the days when a sled was the only vehicle needed for a blizzard. In those days, no one studied her until she cracked. Which she does.

"I can't make snow angels." It's offered as an explanation for all that is wrong with her world and he takes it as such. Peter abandons the lurking position and joins her at the railing, wool coated elbow bumping into hers.

"Okay."

Acceptance of the statement doesn't mean he's not amused by it. The quirk of his lips tells her this and though there's no need, she's compelled to defend it.

"I couldn't get it right. Never looked like the other kids' angels."

The soft fall before them increases a fraction and she wraps her arms tighter about her body. The light breeze has swallowed steroids and now blows her hair off her shoulder.

The flow of blonde distracts Peter for just a moment before the gaze picks up her face once more. "Is that just little Livvy being overcritical?"

"Only if all of my friends were wrong."

"Maybe…" He's analyzing this, complete with chin stroking. Such sinister curiosity has roots in disturbing genes. "Maybe you weren't getting off the ground right."

"There's a right way?" And is there a wrong way to get home intact?

"Of course." Dear Lord, he's warming to this, as though having no issues of his own to dissect. "Depart from your masterpiece without a plan and you'll destroy the symmetry of the wings and put odd dents in your poor angel's body."

Lips that were commanded to remain in frown formation stretch into something almost pleasant. The three inches become five in the time it takes her to pray Peter won't collapse in the fluff to demonstrate the proper technique. Or worse, make her drop and give him an angel. Somehow, that fear isn't enough to keep her from furthering this talk.

"So the flaws in my limb movement aside, I should have strategized how to stand up?"

The shake of his head dislodges stray flakes that dodged a tin roof to light in his hair. "How do you not know this?"

A moment, heavy on contemplation of nonsense, passes as she blinks away the yellow spots in her vision and retrains her gaze on something not so blinding. Like him. Gloved hands on coat-widened hips, she glares as best one can with watering eyes.

"And I suppose your angels were perfect?"

That damned grin should require a license. "Takes one to make one."

He leaves her then, heading out to a snow drift and, with an arm extended, innocently tests for depth. Her arms circle a railing post to ensure he can't extricate her from the porch because a man with his rap sheet should never be trusted. Rather than fall upon the snow's fleece, he spins on his heel and lobs a hasty snowball at the armed FBI agent. Men have been shot for less, she wants to scream as the freezing compaction clumps in her loose hair. But that inner child who mourned her sled-lessness just moments ago surges through her limbs and anoints her the general of the bomb brigade. The wagers of losing are offered: for her a skirt and for him a shave.

An hour later, Astrid walks the newly salted path to hunt for missing colleagues, finding only a mess of splattered snowballs by the cafeteria door and a set of flawless snow angels on the lawn.


	2. Chapter 2

_Because TrippyCookie promised to write something and did, I present her requested second chapter. This, however, does not get you out of actually posting it, Trippy!_

_As always, many thanks to those who keep stopping in to see what I've done next. It's humbling.  
_

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**In The Drift**

**Chapter Two**

Responsibility is one of the first precepts the academy drills into eager heads. Service to the bureau is akin to performing a religious ritual, with purposeful dedication to justice and order. Only Olivia Dunham sits in her epicenter of chaos, surrounded by like-minded agents and wonders. The afternoon saw an abandonment of codes and procedure, it saw a wet backside and evidence of someone's victory in a war of snow weaponry. It saw a letting go. And she wonders.

If Mother Nature has, as Walter postulated, dandruff, Olivia considers requisitioning Head and Shoulders and a rocket ship to deliver it. Because the third unit's field report is as dry as yesterday's memo on proper coding of expense forms, she allows her eyes to flow left to right and back again in the appearance of reading while contemplating how just how many forms it would take to achieve approval of said product and transport request.

Not that she needed to go through channels for anything she wanted. The man with all the seedy and ultimately useful connections, the one who'd pulled her up from the snow after an angel had been carefully created, that man could get her whatever she asked. It has occurred to her, in the sleepless nights where tile counting is employed, that testing the boundaries of Peter Bishop's contacts might be wise. An FBI agent should know exactly how far she can rely on her team. And this agent wanted to know if he'd always come through. But reliance, and other such unsavory words, is something she'd like stricken from the dictionary.

Because of the many things Peter Bishop isn't, reliable should be highest among them. Trust is easy in comparison, but the number of times she'd seen the glimmer of 'flight' spring to his eyes were as plentiful as the powdery flakes against her window. Several sentences had begun with 'men like him,' but the conclusions would get stuck in her throat. She didn't know men like him. He was too many characters all at once. The conglomeration hurt her brain.

But not as much as this report, she decides and closes the plastic cover with more force than required. The slap directs a few faces to her doorway, all ignored as she slings on her still-damp coat and looks to the Magic Eight ball perched on her bookcase. It finds its place in her palm and she gives it a light toss, feeling the liquid slosh just a bit as it settles back in her hand. Out into the night, the snow piles around her and Olivia sets herself free to roam tonight.

Side streets remain untouched as plows contend with the main roads, uneven piles building up between curb-parked cars. Sidewalks are a forgotten commodity but as Olivia sits at a light, she pities the stooped man trying to shovel out a portion for himself. That sense of public duty is a lost art, like chivalry and love letters.

And snow angels.

Her sister, so recently a houseguest and therefore hard to hide from, pointed to the job as the catalyst for losing herself; the version of herself that Liv the Kid expected to be. But the traditional FBI, the system she'd embraced and worked within for years, wasn't to blame. And while Olivia wanted to correct her, the true explanation was impossible to summarize to outsiders. Even to her fellow agents, in their blue parkas and clear protocol, she had no words to describe the frightening scientific marvels being explored by necessity. They brag of their take-downs and she smiles at their communal successes as one does who knows how futile it is. Her team keeps them safe, in the overall scheme of things. Because the Pattern is far reaching, beyond their mafia and white collar crooks. She remembers them too and the sense of finality each time the FBI triumphed against the black hat and handle-bar mustached foes of old.

The enemy isn't so obvious now. The enemy may sit in a boardroom or the bureau cafeteria. The enemy tended to look like Mr. Jones, too plain to be significant, even as they hold hundreds of lives by a noose. Even as they travel through time or turn people into Star Wars beasts. She wants to forget them. And when she arrives home, she measures out a stiff quantity and downs it like medicine. Maybe it is, for now.

When she answers the ringing phone, she's had three fiery shots and finds it easy to smile at the voice already teasing her out of her early buzz.

"So, do I get to dictate the length of the skirt that you, the loser, will be wearing?"

The sofa welcomes her weight and glass number four sits abandoned. "Only if I have the honor of holding the razor."

There's a sound close to an insulted hmph and it reverberates in her ear.

"I realize," he tells her, "that your profession comes with the perk of repeated blows to the head. So I'll forgive you for forgetting who actually won."

"I declared it a draw, but I can see how a genius like you wouldn't recall that."

Over the line, she hears his chuckle and her mind summons the accompanying light in his eyes. "Liv, I don't believe in draws. I do believe you owe me a nice A-line and I will collect."

He's using a tone that must have been honed on people he's scammed but she's far too interested in seeing his smooth chin to admit defeat.

"Then perhaps we should compromise." The last word comes out on a wobbly tongue. If he notices the stutter, he wisely lets it pass. "If we can't agree on a winner, then it's a skirt for me _and_ a shave for you."

A rustling sound greets her, the image of him switching ears while pacing springs to mind. "Is that how the FBI taught you to negotiate? No wonder the scammers get away with so much."

"You should know." Her quick retort is the last thing to travel over the line, his silence possessing a sobering effect. With a timidity not her own, she tries to bring him back to the conversation. "Peter?"

"Yeah, sorry. Walter's finally dropped off and if I wake him, the formulas will start again. So now I'm out in the hall."

Grateful her tactlessness hasn't halted this pointless, non-work related discourse, Olivia settles back onto the couch and grants the smile a warm return to her face. This is familiar territory, and while their ventures away from safe places are gaining traction, she's sleepy now. And sleepy Liv tends to dream of the last thing on her conscious mind.

"Another discussion of separate rooms is coming, isn't it?"

"An argument of separate hotels is coming, but not tonight. Purely in deference to your yawn."

The mention of the word ensures that another follows, this one popping her jaw. "That's very kind, Mr. Bishop."

"I trust you'll take that into account when we have said fight tomorrow. Which I'll win, much like the snowball battle. Oh, and don't forget the skirt."

The disconnected line vibrates her tender ear drum and the phone is dropped on the adjoining cushion. Oh, she'd remember the skirt. And the razor. And, according to the second academy precept, in case of resistance, bring extra handcuffs.

Which ends up being the last thing on her conscious mind.


	3. Chapter 3

_Zaedah returns after a hiatus only slightly shorter than Fringe's to bring you the promised next installment. Thanks to everyone who remained interested enough to stay with me for this one. Only one more chapter to go!_

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**In The Drift**

**Chapter Three**

That the Pattern is running out of ideas is Walter's prognosis for the faltering collective phenomenon. After all, they're just… asleep.

Standing in the lobby of a company whose profit margin involves selling air, Olivia shrugs at Peter who, in turn, gestures to his father. The older man actually seems bored, poking half-heartedly at the faintly opaque cocoon that surrounds the 12 member staff. Walter holds no tools, claps no hands and barely manages a raised eyebrow. The faces of ordinary strangers can be discerned under the fibrous wrap and perhaps it's their lack of fright is the cause of the normally exuberant scientist's lack of excited interest. Only when a hurried FBI rookie accidentally sends an oxygen cylinder slamming into the mix-matched, thin carpet, does the assembled team notice that they should be hurried too. The process of investigating begins in earnest. Walter has tools, Peter tells him not to kill the dead people and Olivia scratches her figurative head. And they work.

Until Olivia's mind slams into the issue while photographing the delivery staff; perhaps they're all bored. The thought hushes the disinterested clicks of the shutter. Not that the horrors of the Pattern's tradition manifestations were preferable to the present scene, but there's no denying a marked increase in shrugs. And in truth, for as much as she works herself up for each arrival to a call, these sleeping forms in their dress-down-Friday casuals are something of a disappointment.

Especially when she wakes one.

Because it's over that fast. Without genuine purpose, her questing finger had pushed through the soft membrane and into a rib, bringing a man to consciousness. But it's his comical, extended yawn that sends her over the edge. Peter is there, bless his psychic hide, and steers her into the underlit warehouse. It's cold there, concrete slab floors stained and as warm as the tank. Peter has his hand on her shoulder to turn her into a conversation that will either relax her or send a troop of cringes through her bones.

"You know," Peter begins, appraising her sensible attire, "had you worn a skirt this would've been more fun."

Because he picks 'lighten-up' mode, her eyes float to his damnable stubble.

"No," she corrects. "Being naked wouldn't have made this more fun."

The words are out before the internal censor could slap a black stripe over the content. And clearly it's against his nature to ignore such things. A scratch at the perpetually shadowed chin and he looks ready to make it happen. With mouth poised to speak, Peter says nothing and thus the existence of God is proven.

Still, she knows the evening will be spent considering every variety of answer. The weighted footsteps that silenced him begin a thudding approach down the concrete stairs and the rookie takes in two people standing far too closely for crime scene decorum.

"All of the bodies are free of the... filmy stuff," he informs while giving Peter the look their ancestral cavemen perfected_. Did you get some?_ "Oh, and everyone's awake. Which is, you know, good. Right?"

She nods in that habitual government way, aware of the nerve damage she's guaranteeing herself. "What kind of story are we getting?"

"In a nutshell? Got sleepy, took a nap, woke up in a bubble."

Peter's grin is dimly reflected in the opposing window, adding layers to her swift annoyance. Partly because the mystery of words unsaid will crawl blithely under her skin for hours and mostly because the words he does say she never can. It's not her role, the casual wit. Consequences are as autumn leaves; she can never rake fast enough to clear the yard.

While Olivia's body is returned to a roomful of oxygen purveyors, her mind trips through a different field. Friendly faces lounge on a curbside-find couch, speaking together with the ease of longtime comrades. And a tinge of envy for that sort of workplace comfort is shoved in the same corner in which she buries every thought of Sanford Harris. In reality, comfort is easy. Appropriateness is hard. This is evidenced every time she looks at the object of recent musings, because what is suitable becomes most taxing.

Defeating attraction isn't in the manual.

Snippets of conversations that revolve around a tease of skirts and shaving are frequent. The mere fact that it's never done in company proves its wickedness. And since glances to his wrists make her touch the back-pocket handcuffs in obsessive-compulsive fashion, Olivia renews her vow to steer clear of this charlatan. As she does every single day. Yet every single day her early determination fades by the time their morning coffee cools.

Seven lucky victims of assault-by-napping-insulation are escorted to the hospital to face an afternoon full of scans and tests for side effects. Three team members shuffle back to the black SUV with a lack of accomplishment teetering on incompetence. Walter neglects to buckle, which earns a safety lecture from his son and when Olivia hears the snap of metal into a slot, she heads for the lab. Armed with samples and feigning curiosity, she asks the mad scientist why Mother Nature chose today to strike back for his many insults.

"I don't think she's upset with me," Walter's defense is a flawless sulk. "I just tweak what she's made."

Peter cranes his neck to catch sight of the elderly man fidgeting with the restrictive strap. "That's how it works, Walter. You spit in her pudding and she's gonna tell the teacher."

"Meaning God?" Olivia slows for a yellow light and takes in the personification of all things unholy. "Tell me you believe in a supreme being."

He pulls the fabric belt away from his chest, adjusting under the weight of her glare. Walter hums behind them, sensing an argument as only an instigator can.

"Yes," Peter finally answers. "Left alone, those people might have sprung out of their cocoons with wings. For their sake and mine, I can only hope there's something, or someone, bigger than our friendly Pattern."

The notion turns her knuckles white against the wheel and she's silent for a moment. Anything she says now would only be tainted with that little girl tone she can't control. Peter waits for her, eyes stamping their intent on her, loosening her tongue.

"Why doesn't he stop it?"

There's a hint of a smile and it's likely he brought up religion for this purpose alone; to defang her. He has a point and he made her lead the brigade right to it.

"Why didn't you wear a skirt?" Seemingly a subject-changer, it's a punch she sees but can't avoid. "I made the winner clear, did I not? But your tasteful pantsuit says you're not submitting to the terms of the bet."

The snort is anything but feminine. "Snowballs be damned. I can do what I want, mister."

"And that's why He doesn't interfere. It's called free will, Liv. Free to make experimental horror and get a government grant for it."

Walter groans, a sign he's not so senile as to miss the insult. Like so many things lately, the sky turns against them, dropping liquid punishment for her boredom in the face of calamity. Despite the ruin of a good hair day, she credits Mother Nature for adding her two cents.

"So," she draws, "the Pattern is free to research its range on blameless society and God gives it the same freedom he gives us?"

The wipers protest their call to duty as a rumble sounds from miles away. Looking pleased with the heavenly commotion, Walter smiles wider with each clap and roll. The turn of lip is an eerie match to his offspring, who wears the grin of a man with a point.

"Remember, free will's a tricky thing. And as soon as you give up yours, I'll thank you for the shortest skirt you own. And I mean tomorrow, agent Dunham."

The stonework of Harvard's older buildings rises into view and once stopped, the men climb from the vehicle. Olivia stares ahead as Peter holds his door ajar. Registering the meaning of her tightlipped profile, he departs with a nod he borrowed from her.

Behind that wall, below the halls of study, resides the clues to what her life is now. The chase and the failure. The progress and the conspiracy. And the comfort. He didn't shave because he likes the excuse to bicker, to tease. They have this now, something to tie them to a place and a time. They have butterfly people and snow angels.

Maybe the job became less interesting because another chase, a different progress took its place. Maybe she's getting used to the views because she doesn't have to sit at home alone, shaking and lost. She has his voice over the line, having witnessed the same views, sharing her confusion and frustration. Not the ideal character to seek solace in, but at least he's there. Willingly. And possibly eagerly. And not in ghostly form. After much internal dispute, she's beginning to get the drift.

Later, while dawn is still sleeping, Olivia pads across the dark house to a closet.

And considers.


End file.
